


Untitled

by Fly



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Community: mgs_slash, Developing Relationship, Friendship, Gift Fic, Identity Porn, M/M, Missing Scene, Missionfic, Original Flavour, Robots, Smarm, South America, Spanish, Tight Suits, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:58:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fly/pseuds/Fly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between MGS1 and 2. The baby steps of a brand new, nameless anti-Metal Gear organisation and the friendship it was built on. Snake/Otacon, but pretty gentle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://athena_crikey.livejournal.com/profile)[**athena_crikey**](http://athena-crikey.livejournal.com/), this is a giftfic for you for being so nice as to send me a letter. I was going to send it back to you as a letter-giftfic in response for the gorgeous one you sent me which made my week, but then I carried on writing it and it kind of blossomed into a fifteen-thousand word monstrosity, so you're going to have to put up with the digital version. Thanks for the leaf, though, I have it on my wall.
> 
> Credits go to [](http://daniela-lynx.livejournal.com/profile)[**daniela_lynx**](http://daniela-lynx.livejournal.com/) for the Spanish, and [](http://technophile.livejournal.com/profile)[**technophile**](http://technophile.livejournal.com/) for helping me phrase one line.

They've been working together for two weeks and four days when Snake asks the question Otacon's been dreading;

"What do you think of me?"

"Huh?" Otacon responds, trying to look like he hadn't expected the question, let alone known the answer. "What? Why do you ask that?"

"Because I want to know," Snake says, not looking at him. "That's why. Most people don't live long enough to give me an informed answer."

"And I can give you one in two and a half weeks?"

"Yeah," Snake responds. "I'm not that complicated."

Otacon decides to engross himself in re-reading the small print on the forms from the UN, and starts filling in the holes in the letters by shading them solid with his pencil in order to make himself look more busy, when Snake comments,

"That bad, huh?"

"N – no – " Otacon stammers, whirling around on the chair, "it's not like – uh – "

"Be honest," Snake says. Seated on the floor, his feet are crossed close to his body, and despite the ramrod-straight back he looks strangely subservient. His expression is a grim line, grey pixels for eyes. "Please, tell me what you think."

"Well – " Otacon bites his lip. "I think you're a good person. Brave. Admirable, even."

He stops.

Snake leans forward and sounds the word unspoken in the air. "But?"

"But, uh - " Otacon says, "I'm not sure I like you, yet."

"Why not?"

"Well, you're so – difficult," Otacon explains. "I don't ever know how you'll respond to things because you're so moody. Sometimes you'll be all calm and relaxed and then suddenly you'll – shut down and I won't get a decent word out of you for the rest of the day. And sometimes you'll get all – funny, and start asking weird personal questions. Stuff like that."

"Does this count as a weird personal question?"

"Yeah, a little."

Snake tilts his head and stares at the painting on Nastasha's wall – the one of the dead forest around Chernobyl that depresses Otacon just to see. The muted light from the sun behind the study's blinds picks out the tops of his smooth cheekbones.

"I see," he says, grimly.

"Was that – " Otacon says, slightly deflated, " – was that the answer you expected?"

"How the hell should I know? I just told you no-one else has ever given me an answer."

Too quickly, Otacon says, "Oh, that can't be true."

Snake thinks.

"You're right. It isn't. Everyone else who gave me an answer told me the same thing – that I was little more than an animal, and they were probably right."

"Snake, seriously, that's not what I – "

"I know," Snake says. "There's worse things than that."

He nods his head stiffly, face unchanging. Otacon strains to pick up on some subtlety of expression that would reveal what Snake was thinking, some giveaway, but comes up blank; after all, he thinks, it's only been two weeks and four days, and he's not quite used to what Snake's mannerisms mean, and so there's no way of knowing. However, Otacon does know he'd rather be having some other, different conversation.

"What are you working on, anyway?" Snake says, and Otacon breathes a sigh of relief in his head.

"Ah. Just boring paperwork, mostly," he explains. "They want all my details, my legal record, evidence of this and that and – it's kind of a pain, but it's not the most bureaucratic thing I've ever had to do."

Snake shakes his head. "Me neither. Couldn't so much as visit another department in the CIA without a full psych test and blood samples. At least the UN has a reason to be careful. There's a lot of money and honour riding on this."

Even with someone he knows doesn't like him, Otacon thinks, he talks the same.

"Yeah, I know," Otacon agrees. "Just one thing, though."

"Tell me."

"We need a name."

Snake looks away.

"For my application?"

"No," Otacon says, "for the organisation. I already filled out our form. Faked a bit of evidence here and there, wrote your real name down as 'N/A'..."

Snake gives a tiny bark of laughter, but it's very brief.

"About the organisation," he says. " I don't care what it's called. You'll come up with something better than anything I could, anyway. It's all up to you."

Otacon pretends to be surprised.

"Oh, I was hoping you'd say that," he says, collapsing back into the chair wistfully. "A whole organisation to name! I keep coming up with names while I'm trying to get to sleep or making food or on the toilet – not all at once, though – " Snake doesn't smile at the joke, and Otacon manages to avoid rolling his eyes – "and I forget most of them. How about – ONWARD?"

"ONWARD?"

"Organisation for Nuclear Weapon A – A-something R-something and Disarmament. I came up with the middle two before, I've forgotten them now."

"I like it," Snake says, dismissively. "Call it that."

"But I've forgotten what it stands for! I can't call it that!"

"Then why did you bother telling me?" Snake responds, and Otacon's reminded of his assessment of Snake's personality. "I'm going. Tell me what you decide on." He gets up.

"Uh," says Otacon. So – difficult. "G – Goodbye, then."

But Snake has already gone, not responding to Otacon at all.

Otacon gnaws on his thumb with frustration, trying to recall the A and the R. Maybe it wasn't ONWARD at all, he wonders, but UNOWN? United Nations Organisation against Weapons of Nuclear... something – not enough letters –

Giving up, Otacon stacks the papers into a neat little pile underneath the shell he's been using as a paperweight, and gets up to leave.

\--

 

Snake's definitely a good person. Otacon's sure of that. A bad person wouldn't answer honestly when Otacon asked him what he thought about love, and war, and other big concepts like that; a bad person wouldn't love dogs; a bad person, if killing did to them what Otacon suspects it does to Snake, would just kill and kill and kill until they tore the world down around them and never think about it. Snake's almost definitely been a bad person at some point in his life before now, but, for now, Otacon's sure he's a good person.

"We don't have time!" he's roaring at the scientist he's got cowering up against the wall, trembling all over. From where Otacon's standing, he can see the poor man's tear-streaked face framed between Snake's sleek, long legs.

"I can't tell you!" he wails. "I'll lose my job!"

"And if you don't take that fall, tens of thousands will lose far more! Now, tell me where it is!"

"Snake – " Otacon whispers, touching him on the shoulder, "eight minutes."

"Did you hear that? In eight minutes, they'll bring it up to ground level to launch!" Snake's bristling with fury, but Otacon's close enough to see the drops of sweat on the back of his neck. "Your boss is going to use that thing to commit one of the worst acts imaginable. Are you going to let him do that? You're just going to sit here playing dumb while he drops a nuke on Eldera?"

The scientist sniffs, and wipes his eyes very slowly with the back of his hand. There is a long silence as Snake waits. Then the scientist says,

"I'll be killed! – "

"I'll kill _you_! – "

"Snake – "

Snake retracts his fist from the wall where he'd struck it in anger, and looks back at Otacon. His eyes are shadowed dark with exhaustion. His cheeks are splattered in pixels of red from the soldiers he'd had to shoot getting them both in here. Yes, Otacon thinks, definitely a good person.

Even a good person should have waited for official UN approval before doing this, though.

"Snake, please," Otacon says to him, aware he sounds like the Good Cop to Snake's Off-The-Rails-Loose Cannon. "Just remember how you dealt with me."

"Telling you to go away repeatedly, even though you didn't?" Snake says. As Otacon's wondering if that's completely true, Snake bends down in front of the scientist.

"Listen," he said, his voice calmer. A prickle runs down Otacon's spine at the dark, steely tone, and for a second he imagines what it would be like if Snake was as cool as that all the time, a charismatic leader of this nameless organisation. "This is your chance to save the lives of uncountable men, women and children. You'll be nameless, unnoticed in the annals of history, but you and your family will always know you as the brave, selfless man you are."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"I've got no reason to." Snake leans in, cool and sincere. "You need to live. But what do you live for? It can't be for crying and shaking with fear about something you have the power to stop. You were born for this, and you can fulfil your destiny by telling me where I can find Metal Gear."

"I – "

"Where is it?"

"It's – it's in the hangar. The obvious one in the centre of the complex is just a decoy, with only regular weapons inside. Metal Gear's in the small hangar to the far East of the complex. You get better vantage from there, too." The scientist gave Snake a strange look; the look of someone who'd only just realised what the words they were saying meant, but it's gone in a second. "You need an engineer pass to get in. I'll – give you my card."

The scientist's shaking hands begin to unclip the card from the lanyard around his neck, but Snake takes them gently, steers them away, and takes the card out himself in one swift motion.

"You're a good man," he says, pats him on the shoulder, and gets up. The bandanna catches underneath his body armour's collar, and he unhooks it with a sweep of his hand. "Come on, Otacon. Six minutes and thirty seconds."

"You can do that?" Otacon says, in disbelief, running after him.

"Do what?"

"That timing thing."

"Yeah," Snake says. He leads Otacon down a corridor, seemingly by instinct. There's a disturbing clarity in the air, most personnel having evacuated or moved into the area around the base to support Metal Gear.

"I guess that's why you never keep people waiting," Otacon says.

Snake shoves the card into the door slot. It's the old-fashioned kind you have to swipe, and the reader rejects him with a beep. He curses and tries the card the other way round.

The Metal Gear squats like a sitting frog on the central platform, already ascending.

"No!" Snake barks, running at it, as Otacon attempts to block out the million voices in his head saying stupid things and find a – terminal, right there, against the wall – which he dashes to, as Snake runs and stares helplessly up at the column and runs again, a caged animal. The hangar roof is grinding its way open. Rain glances off the hunched body of the tank, shining its skin with the nervous sweat of a debut. Otacon starts going through the list of passwords he memorised on the flight. He prays the system doesn't count incorrect logins.

The Metal Gear is standing now, knee joints extending in a screech of hydraulics.

"Otacon!"

"You need to delay it!" Otacon yells back. _Nombre de usuario o contraseña incorrectos._

"How?"

"Try breaking the platform!"

It's half-sarcastic as he gets another incorrect login. He's slowed down on this stupid Spanish-language keyboard, letters where there shouldn't be.

The platform's a wide mesh-over-steel base suspended on a tall trunk, powered by who-knows-how-many-generators turning a powerful metal gear at the bottom, turning in place. Only a quarter is visible – it's pointlessly shiny and exposed, a ludicrous decorative touch, an obvious character flaw. It's like some kind of awful marketing logo.

A sudden zipping sound grabs Otacon's attention and he's startled away from typing as he sees Snake tear off the dark blue body armour of his Sneaking Suit and shove it into the gear, between the teeth. The gear rolls, slow as a glacier, and the platform inches up, and then there's an awful scraping sound and the platform stops moving.

"_Otacon!_"

"I'm on it!"

It's two minutes and forty seconds before the terminal lets him in – two minutes forty seconds of awful tension as the wheel clanks its way forward, inch by painful inch. Metal Gear, pre-programmed, is roaring with its joints as it calibrates them, tens at a time, locking its clawed feet into the mesh it stands on and adjusting its balance on its squatted knees.

Otacon's fairly sure that if he stopped to think about what he's actually doing, he'd pass out on the floor and probably wet himself, but as it is, beyond the urgency, he's weirdly calm.

"Snake!"

Snake's unravelling his belt, and clamping it deep around the teeth. It pulls tight, material straining. "What?!"

"I'm in!"

"Then shut the damn thing down!"

It's arching its body now. The sleek railgun on its arm scrapes across the sky like a scalpel, waiting for the platform to finish its ascension, cascading white sparks with every raindrop that strikes it. Otacon's fingers are a blur as he finds the program, gains access to the controls –

The belt snaps, a loud twang that makes Otacon jerk round.

"Shut it down!" Snake screams back at him. Otacon hunches over the keys again, even as he hears the rubbery scrape of the body armour giving in.

Just another three seconds –

His cursor becomes an hourglass. He snatches a glance behind him. Snake's holding onto the wheel like a demented Atlas, carved stone muscles straining under the sodden underlayer of his Sneaking Suit. There's no way even he's strong enough to hold that thing for even a second, and it rolls along and along and along and –

it happens.

Metal Gear curls back up to fake sleep, with the smooth motions of a machine. Snake, flicking rat-tailed wet hair from his eyes with a toss of his head, snarls as he wrestles against the gear, before he realises it isn't resisting him any more.

"Your suit," Otacon says.

"Yeah. There isn't going to be another one where that came from. It's a shame, but at least it wasn't a waste."

Snake gives a little sigh and kneels down, pulling out a torn oblong of the dark smart material with some difficulty. He stretches it between his hands, and then wonders over to Otacon, handing it to him.

"This is all that's left," he observes, as Otacon tilts it so that the rain caught in it runs down the clefts moulded to Snake's muscles. It looked like the part that used to go over his left side.

He's distracted from it when Snake suddenly looks up, and they both stare at the man approaching. Tall, face scarred by age and battle in a tasteless impasto, his body is swathed in a dark uniform and a dark coat. He's carrying a machete in his left, holding it out like a rapier.

"The General," Snake introduces, needlessly.

"Snake!" the General answers, returning the favour. "The hero of Shadow Moses, Zanzibar Land and Outer Heaven. For someone with your reputation, I would expect a greater margin of success."

"I pull through by the skin of my teeth," Snake responds, and Otacon can see each of the muscles in his back tense and flex from the sheer anticipation of threat. "That's always been how I work. It's not likely to change."

"Another forty-two seconds and it would have launched its payload, you realise."

"Yeah. You think I should have waited thirty-five more?"

The General laughs, tip of his blade unmoving. There's a long wicked scar running along the back of his hand, up his sleeve – it looks to Otacon like he got it from a sword-fight.

"Like a true American action hero," the General purrs, even as Snake trains his gun directly at his face. "But, even then, it would hardly be 'three more ticks' from disaster. You see, you may have shut down the machine, but someone – " he cast his left hand around the hangar – "me, or one of my men, could ever so easily turn it back on. There may be no countdown, but this is still a moment of great instability in time. This is the final tick, slowed down to infinity. Let's relish it, shall we? Because – _it's not over yet!_"

The General bares his teeth with a hiss.

"I'll engage him," Snake says, not looking round. "Prepare the escape chopper. I'll be with you in eight minutes."

"Eight minutes, Snake? Is that your personal record?"

"Your remaining lifespan," Snake growls in response. Sodden and disarranged, steel muscles showing plain underneath the film-thin suit, hair a tangled mess, he looks even more bestial than usual.

Otacon needs no further encouragement to get out of there.

"Let's make a little wager out of it!" the General calls after him. "You have eight minutes! The final tick of the clock! You will not be held back, but if I am still alive after eight minutes, I will give my men the order to kill you! Return to where you came from and live, or wait for your partner and die!"

 

\--

 

It's seven minutes and ten seconds before Snake's fist pounding on the side of the chopper jerks Otacon to take off his glasses and wipe his face – he hadn't been crying, just weeping from the exhaustion and the guilt and the stress. He pulls open the chopper door, and takes Snake's hand to help him in. Their hands lock around each other's comfortably, and Otacon feels an electric jolt of security.

"You waited for me," Snake says.

"Of course I did," Otacon agreed, replacing his glasses and looking around for his ear protectors –

"You trusted me."

"Definitely. Something about you – I don't know, you feel really trustworthy. Put your headset on unless you want to get tinnitus when you're older."

Snake takes his pair from the hook on the wall, and just as Otacon sees his pair on the floor, Snake picks them up for him and hands them over. With noise cancellation and the internal speakers on, Otacon crackles through the microphone into Snake's headset –

"What does the ground-to-air presence look like?"

"Don't worry. The General's a proud man. He ordered everyone not to attack until he gave his word."

"And he's... not going to, is he?"

"No," Snake said, and needlessly added, "he's dead, if that's what you mean."

As Otacon drags the chopper above the trees, he sees men in uniform, wondering below as if dazed. Some are weeping; others are comforting them, and others still are hostile. One points his AK at the choppers underside and fires a volley that clangs harmlessly off its armour – Otacon yelps at the gunshot, but Snake's gloved hand closes around his and keeps it steady on the choke. Otacon, grateful, lifts it into the sky.

When they're high enough that the people below are little more than ants, Snake takes his hand away. Otacon sees him take something out of his pocket, and push it. Even through the headset, he hears a crack like sudden thunder coming from the base, and an ever-so-faint chorus of male screams.

"That's Metal Gear done for," Snake says, putting the detonator back in his pocket.

"I guess Eldera will win the war, now Serena is without a leader."

Snake nods. "Although the General – he was a dictator, but his people loved him. Towards the end of the Eighties, democratisation spread like wildfire across the whole of South America – it says so much about the General's strength and talent that it didn't spread to Serena. Together, Serena and Eldera are twin islands of an dying old ideology stranded in the sea of a changed world – they fight with each other because there is no-one else left."

"Why was the General so popular? He looked like – "

"He was a good leader, and, despite being military, focused most of his attention on securing a better standard of living for his country. The previous General had almost crippled it – he was committing a slow genocide in Praulia, the capital of the Serena Republic – and he would have carried on spreading that hate if this General hadn't killed him and gutted his government, eventually taking over. He united the ethnic groups under his charisma, helped to reduce tensions. Eldera will probably end those years of civilian peace... take over the territory. Maybe the people of this country will find a way to resist them without resorting to nuclear weapons." Snake looks, grimly, down at Otacon. "That's all we can hope for. Our part of the work is over."

"There has to be something – "

"Don't be an idiot. We've already meddled in other people's affairs more than enough. This organisation isn't even legally recognised; if we want that, we have to be on our best behaviour from now on. No more last-minute missions and no doing anything beyond our main goal. Got it?"

"Snake?"

"What's up?"

"Why," asks Otacon, "did you – join this organisation?"

Snake clenches his fist.

"Hate."

"Of what?"

"Of Metal Gear, and of the people who plan to use it."

"That's – kind of a strong feeling, isn't it?" Otacon says, awkwardly.

"On the battlefield, it's an everyday emotion."

"How does – I mean, I hate Metal Gear more than anyone else, but – as a soldier? When you're killing people, and hating them? H – "

"I don't hate them," Snake says.

Otacon says, "oh".

 

\--

 

"I've got a name," Otacon says, triumphantly.

"Don't flash it around or I'll start wanting one."

Snake's standing in just the suit's inner layer, waiting for Otacon to finish the project. Otacon glances over at him, but only finds himself wondering if Snake's always had such thick thighs.

"I meant for the organisation, Snake. You know that."

Snake groans. "Go on."

"OMEGA."

"What's that stand for?"

"Organisation against MEtal GeAr," Otacon explains, gesticulating where the capitals are with his soldering iron.

"Put that on the form."

"You don't like it?"

"I have no preference." Snake folds his arms. "The sooner you come up with a name, the sooner we can work on stopping Metal Gear proliferation. We can't live on the my money forever. We need funding, and for that, we need recognition, and for that, we need a name."

"Then why don't you come up with one?"

Snake blinks. "Huh?"

"If it's that unimportant," Otacon tosses over his shoulder, carefully melting a line of smart material so that beads of dark liquid plastic rolled over the head of its tip, "call us something. Spare me the indecision."

He's fitting the stay along the molten strip as Snake starts around awkwardly and eventually says,

"I can't come up with anything."

"See?" Otacon says. "That's because you don't care. I, however, do care. Does AMGER sound good?"

Snake comes towards him and perches on the edge of the work table, looking down at Otacon, who manages to tear his eyes from the way Snake's thighs sort of dip out into his buttocks and gets back to work. He smooths a fibre strip over the stay, and blows on it to harden it.

"Against Metal GEar Rex?" Snake guesses.

"No, actually. Activists for Metal Gear ERadication," Otacon corrected, fixing the other stay. "Hmm. Kind of – lame, actually. Let's not call it that. Oh, before I forget, will you remind me to tighten your suit?"

"Tighten it?" Snake says, pulling the suit on his upper arm taut with two fingers. The static cling emulates every fibre of muscle beneath.

"Yeah," Otacon said. "It'll be more comfortable and improve bullet resistance by about 30%. Trust me."

"Anything else?"

"You need a haircut and a shave," Otacon says, before he can stop himself, and then blanches in embarrassment. Snake, ever so slowly, reaches behind his head to touch the loose waves starting to curl over at the top of his neck.

"Give me a break," he says, scowling. "This is what I'm like when there's no women to take care of my looks for."

The realisation drops into Otacon's gut.

"You – can't let yourself be as bad as you were before over something like that." Otacon begins, awkwardly. "You've – you've got me."

"I thought you didn't even know if you liked me as a person," Snake snarls, sarcastic. "Change your mind because of my winning personality? Or is it just that you're with me now that I'm dedicated to fighting your war that you started?"

Otacon feels anger bubble up in his throat, but thinks – _I'm not going to rise to your bait_.

"I – care about you," he says, and his voice sounds measured and sharp and cool. "What I don't care for is putting up with you acting like this. There's no reason to hate yourself for – whatever it is that happened. And you want to be a better person, don't you? So – so don't go around expecting everyone to hate you. If you're being a better person, they don't! That's the whole point!"

Otacon swallows. Getting a little too emphatic there. He cuts down the other fibre strip and seals the stay while Snake stares on, dumbfounded –

"Otacon – " he starts.

"Just twenty-four more seconds, while this hardens."

Snake falls silent again, and waits, while Otacon counts in his head.

"Now?" he says, after twenty-four seconds.

Otacon pokes at the seam and finds it strong.

"Yep, done. Get on your feet, I'll try this on you."

 

It's not as good as the old armour, the dark carapace that fit into each curve of muscle. There's not much smart material left, and what was there Otacon has had to slice along its thickness, making two ultra-thin cloths. After cropping and trimming and reattaching straps, he'd assembled it into a new thing from an old, and even if it'd only ever be a cheap imitation of the first one, it could still be something valuable in itself.

"So, what's this going to be?" Snake asks, looking over his shoulder at Otacon.

"Just a harness with a little body protection. You'll have room for your equipment, and..." Otacon shrugged. "Well, that stuff's expensive. I don't want to waste it."

Otacon loops the harness over Snake's shoulders, accidentally brushing the hair at the back of Snake's neck with his fingertips. He shivers, and Snake notices the motion, but doesn't do more than smile enigmatically and turn his head forward again.

"Can you clip it at the front for me?" Otacon asks. "Just quickly. Adjust the little clip until the strap's about the length of a quarter of your chest on either side. The clasp should nestle in between your pectorals."

Snake does it, then turns around so Otacon can see.

"Like that?"

"Yeah," Otacon agrees. He reaches out to check Snake's adjusted it correctly by pulling on it, then placing it back. The suit is so cold to the touch it feels almost wet.

Snake turns back around.

"Could you do the same for the stomach clip? I can never remember your waist measurement, and, well, you're getting older – "

"I hear ya," Snake says, dryly. There's the little click of the clip locking into place. "Okay, I think I've got it."

"Now, hold it against your stomach with your hand. Push it right in."

Otacon demonstrated by reaching around, brushing up against the smooth wall of Snake's stomach, ignoring the little pulse of energy that spikes across his own. Snake's finger pushes down on his own finger and he takes his hand away.

"Now what?"

"Just – "

"Yeah?"

"Hold onto that for a second," says Otacon, surveying the perfect curve of Snake's lower back. He grabs both ends of the elastomer thread and yanks them both tight. "Okay. Now you can let go."

Otacon works swiftly, inserting the end of the thread into each of the eyes. It's not hard work – he used to lace up his sister's shoes like this – and it's done quickly. He ties off the ends, cuts the long overhang with a pair of scissors, and backs away.

"There," he says, pleased.

Snake turns back around, and tugs on all of the straps, rolling his shoulders and waist to get a feel for the tightness.

"Not as nice as your old one, I'm afraid," Otacon admits, as Snake's poking through the pouches. "Kind of a 'budget model'."

Admiring it, Snake twists his upper body to look down at his back with an acuteness that suggested insane flexibility. He runs his hands up the lacing, feeling the criss-cross.

"Looks like a corset," he says.

Otacon blinks.

"I can honestly say I didn't mean to do that – " he adjusts his glasses, " – oh, now that you've said that I keep seeing it."

"Otacon – "

"Don't worry, I'll make you a new one – "

Snake's hand comes down on Otacon's shoulder.

"Otacon, it's great," he says, and his voice is so effortlessly objective that Otacon feels the words more than hears them. "It does the job. Besides, it could look like a penguin suit for all it matters to me. No-one's going to see me wearing it."

He's beaming.

Otacon's mind catches up to him and he realises it was a friendly little semi-joke, albeit kind of a dark one, and he's about to start laughing but then Snake interrupts,

"Got some bad news for ya."

"The kind of bad news you'll get to test out my harness on?" Otacon says, a little belligerently.

"How did you guess?" Snake says, grim again. "I must have it written all over me."

"How did you find out about it before me?"

Snake's eyes went dark.

"It was Meryl," he said. "She called."

"Here?"

"Yeah. Still wasn't – " Snake takes a deep breath, " – but I think her tip was solid."

"Why do you think she gave it to you?"

"I've got no idea. No idea where she got it from either, but – "

"It's fine, I'll check it out. What is it?"

Snake looks sour.

"Remember two weeks ago?"

"When we destroyed the Metal Gear derivative in the Serena Republic?"

"Yeah. The power vacuum created by the death of the General caused weakened defences, but they're still just about holding on."

"In all the newspapers," Otacon says, "and it feels weird; we should be having this conversation the other way around."

"We're not going to. What Meryl said – she said that Eldera have built one."

Otacon stares at Snake.

"Are we going to go to Eldera?"

"Six hours," Snake says. "I know what I said before, but this is part of our organisation's mission."

"SSHAMI's mission."

Snake rolls his eyes. "Survivors of SHAdow Moses Island, right?"

"You guessed! Good job, Snake!"

"I'll give you six hours," Snake says. "Do you think you can get a plan for us by then?"

"You can count on me."

Snake smiled. "Right. In the meantime, I think I'll go cut my hair and shave."

   
  
---


	2. Untitled

Otacon lands the chopper half a mile away from the development site, and they walk through the forest in the dark. There's nothing to see anywhere, so Otacon takes his glasses off and puts them in his pocket, concentrating on following Snake, who seems to know where he's going, even through the jungle, at night.

They'd got ready independently, occasionally calling to each other to confirm some fact or detail; they'd got into the chopper in the dark; and while flying, Otacon had better places to look than at Snake's face. It's a suffocating night, heavy and sticky, and while Snake's undersuit – 'sneaking tights', Otacon mentally nicknames it – seems to be regulating his temperature well, Otacon is almost struggling to breathe. He'd discarded his old sweater on the back seat of the helicopter as soon as it become apparent wearing it was a mistake, and so Snake had lent him an old workout vest that he'd brought along, thinking exactly that would happen. It's the sort of thing that should be filled out with flawless, glossy muscle, and Otacon, feeling scrawny and hairy in its loose folds, is thankful for the dark and that Snake hasn't noticed the smell.

Something above their heads hums, a dull tremolo. Bright white light – a searchlight – filters through the leaves.

"It's a platform," Snake whispers, as they huddle under a thick overhanging branch, hiding from view. "You don't see so many of them around, with choppers being so much more efficient."

"So why would it be here?"

"I've got no idea. It's decades-old technology; completely obsolete."

"Just because it's old doesn't make it harmless, though, I'm guessing," Otacon said, grimly, but then broke off into thought – "Keeping the best things about the way the past does things – isn't that what the future is?"

"First we change the world, and then we let the world change us," Snake agreed. "That last part is what defines the future."

The platform passes by, and Snake taps Otacon on the forearm to indicate – time to move. The clearing they approach is floored with fluffy vegetation, long stringy plants that wrap around Otacon's ankles as he stumbles after, and he falls into Snake's broad back a couple of times before they reach the compound's outer wall. The brickwork is painted and mercifully cool – Otacon leans against it, rolling over to soak up as much cold as possible. It's slick with condensed moisture, and he fancies it washing off most of the sweat. Snake, meanwhile, is lurking – Otacon looks around – somewhere where he can't see from here, but he's definitely close.

Finally he sees a faint orange light, a blurry star in his myopic vision, jumping auto-kinetically in the dark. It's the end of a cigarette. Otacon follows after it, until he can make out the outline of Snake's nose and lips from the glow. He taps him on the shoulder.

"It's okay," Snake says. "We're close. The nearest entrance is to the East – " he takes Otacon's hand and points it in that direction, and Otacon calibrates his mental compass – "but there's a heavy guard presence. I could take everyone out if you want, but I'd prefer we didn't."

"Snake – "

"Don't get sentimental, it's not what you think, just pragmatism. It's a lot more alarming to find a dead man's body than it is to think you see a face in the dark, or hear something go bump in the night."

"Yeah, I guess that's – true," Otacon cedes.

"They don't look to be using night-vision, just flashlights, platform floodlights, and a few security sensors – and those are the kind that are little more than a motion sensor connected to a lamp. I could get past it all in my sleep."

Otacon says, "What about – "

"I wouldn't be telling you to do it if I didn't think you could handle it. Make sure you go slowly and use the darkness to your advantage, and you shouldn't have a problem. The foliage is thick, so there's plenty of cover. You need to get through, crawl through the gap in the wall, and then hack into the door system. When you've done that, I'll join you."

"But – "

"Don't worry, it'll be easy. Besides, even in the dark, you have the advantage. You can use the So – "

"Snake? I – forgot."

"Forgot what?"

"We can't use the radar."

"You mean to say you can't see the radar in the top right-hand corner of the – "

"No, I mean, we aren't using that kind of – "

"Oh," Snake says. "I get it. But even without the radar, there's no doubt you'll make it. I know you can."

Otacon's asking himself all kinds of awful internal questions – _what if they find me, what if I have to kill one, what if_ – when Snake's hand settles on Otacon's shoulder.

"I'm not as good as you when it comes to other people," he says. "Never really cared to try. You make me regret not caring."

It's kind of like a love confession, Otacon thinks, looking back at what little he can see of Snake's face. He takes a deep breath, and then hacks out a cough as he inhales too much second hand smoke.

As he leaves Snake and heads East, the taste of cigarettes remains in his mouth, the taste would have been if he'd kissed him.

\--

 

Otacon closes the door carefully behind them, and sighs.

"Still no light," he says.

"Well," Snake responds, "it's after dark. Even warmongers need their beauty sleep."

At least it's cooler in here. Out of the direct humidity, out of immediate danger, Otacon takes a second to wipe the sweat from his face with his grubby hands, slick his damp hair back. Snake's already started along the corridor, boots sounding on the cement, and Otacon hurries to catch up.

"This doesn't make any sense," he says, as he plugs one end of his USB cable into the emergency port on the door, leading the other end into his netbook.

"What doesn't."

"Why would Eldera be building a Metal Gear if they're winning?"

Otacon doesn't have the right drivers on his netbook to detect the door. He hunts for the value in the registry that recognises the lock, squatting down onto his knees as he searches.

"I don't know. To further secure their own territory?" Snake leans against the door frame, arms folded. "Like I said before, Eldera and Serena are some of the last bastions of a dying ideology, and their territories are getting smaller and smaller as they're forced to relinquish regions to neighbouring governments. It's easy to imagine what having a Metal Gear would do to your ability to gain footholds in negotiations."

Otacon fudges a value and manages to make the door indicator light blink. So close! He tries another value.

"Anyway, even if that's true, what about the platforms?" he asks, as he does so. "They're using patchy, sporadic security and extremely dated technology."

"Budget," Snake offers.

"But they're building a _Metal Gear_!"

"Perhaps that's why the budget is drained," Snake suggests, hands on hips. He doesn't sound either very convinced, or very convincing.

There's a whirring noise from the door. Otacon's managed to make the motors spin continuously, which means it should be opening, but – oh, it's _that_ kind of lock, the new 'hackerproof' one. There's a ratchet he needs to move down so it locks, and then he needs to reverse the direction of spin using a separate routine. Okay, no problem.

"Even with budget, though, where would they find nuclear material?" Otacon asks. "We all know that there's a lot of MUF in the world, but there's also a lot of demand for it from bigger powers than this one."

"Do you think they plundered Serena's warhead?"

Otacon thinks about that.

"If it's true and they're both building Rex models, then yeah. But it's only been two weeks! You're telling me that in two weeks they were able to plunder a warhead and build their own – I mean, we had to design it too, but it took my department years just to develop Rex's body! And we were receiving basically unlimited funding, because we could get money both from the government and from the private sector!"

"So," Snake thinks aloud, "the Metal Gear was either built before the one in Serena, and they took the nuke as a finishing touch – "

" – or they have the nuke from some other place we don't know about – "

" – or Metal Gear isn't launch capable," Snake concludes, looking at Otacon, who gives a little 'ha' of triumph as the ratchet slams into position. _Hackerproof, my ass!_

"The other thing;" Otacon says, pleased they make such a good discussion team, "why would the General want to drop a nuke on a neighbouring country? I mean, there's very little chance that a blast, with today's weapons, would do anything less than wipe out both countries."

"Good point. Even if they're using dated nukes to go with all the rest of the dated weaponry, and the bombs are only as powerful as Fat Man and Little Boy – "

"'Only as powerful'," Otacon repeats, sighing at what the world is. "But you're right. Even with the weakest available nukes, if the fallout gets into the tradewinds – "

"There," Snake says. "That's the thing I can't figure out. The only ideas that I can think of is that either there was only conventional weaponry to begin with, or Eldera wasn't the target for Serena's nuke."

"And if it's the last one, by extension, Serena's nuke might not be pointed at Eldera," Otacon says. "So, who do you think the target would be? One of the superpowers?"

"I don't think that's the case, but you never know. Either way, I hope not." Snake shakes his head. "Whatever the situation, we've got to stop that thing. We'll figure it out later on."

"Does that ever happen, though?" Otacon asks, preparing the ratchet, motor and direction system. "Do you ever get the time to figure it out? On your own?"

Snake looks sadly at him for a second and Otacon, enthralled, stares back through myopic eyes.

"If you want answers, you have to find them yourself," Otacon tells him. "No point waiting for the point to be _told_ to you, by which time you've lost your place in the world and it's all too late. You need to find answers now, believe them now. That's what I think."

"So now's the time, huh?" Snake says.

"I'm going to open the door."

"Gotcha."

"You're prepared?"

"When am I not?"

Otacon swallows and starts the process.

The double-doors roll back into the wall. Snake's hands drop reflexively into a stance of preparedness, his weight balanced on his broad hips. The hangar is faintly illuminated with strip lights, and at the back lurks the dark shape of – something.

"You think that's it?" Otacon asks, replacing his glasses. It's impossible to make out anything more than a vague, asymmetrical darkness. Snake gives him a sharp hand gesture and leads him in.

Otacon's steps echo in the openness of the hangar, a drum beat that lodges in his ears, and the sudden feeling of openness hushes his breath, the atmosphere inside a museum or temple. Snake calls him back with a little grunt, and leads him along the wall instead, gun drawn. Above their heads is a mesh walkway, lit weakly with emergency lamps. If anyone is watching from up there, Otacon thinks, we'll see them. He praises himself for thinking like Snake, and follows along.

It's not long before they reach Metal Gear. It's shrouded in a clear sheet; some kind of protective tarpaulin that strains obscenely over its muscular body, the same way Snake's sneaking tights do. Its bowed, saurian head hangs low, in shame, its long railgun arms braced against the floor like a pair of crutches. It's a sad looking beast, but nonetheless the size and power and hate radiating from it consumes Otacon, and he stares up at it, reeling dimly.

"So what's the plan?" Snake asks.

"You blew up the last one."

"Only because I didn't have the time to do anything else. If I do that here, they'll blame it on Serena and the war will just intensify. I won't let civilians suffer for anything I do."

"Can we contact NEST?"

"NEST?" Snake thinks. "Good idea. Did you put SSHAMI down?"

"No, I didn't, in the end," Otacon admits. "It's a stupid name, and I like the sound of SABATA better. It stands for – "

"So we haven't been officialised, meaning we've got no way of contacting NEST." Snake tuts to himself, then continues, "not that even if you'd come up with a name four weeks ago, we'd be recognised yet. It's going to take at least six weeks for them to verify anything."

Metal Gear watches, gaping, and still.

"I'll concentrate on rendering it non-functional by messing up the software – that's more likely to be blamed on in-organisation saboteurs than on civilian terrorists," Otacon suggests. "The computer's on the walkway above, isn't it?"

Snake frowns.

"This is way too easy," he says.

"What do you mean?"

"We walked straight in here. No fights, only weak security. Nothing." Snake waved his hand around at the emptiness. "I'll be honest – this stinks."

"But why would Eldera be trying to lure us into destroying their own..."

Snake scowls. "Yeah. Maybe it's not the Elderans themselves who are building this."

"An American annex?"

"That's one possibility. Or this could all be a trap." The purr of his voice is swallowed by the echoes in the hangar as he finishes, and Otacon feels a sense of cold dread. "If I had to make a guess – "

"The computer system! When anyone tampers with it, security will come running," Otacon says, "right?"

"Exactly what I was thinking. Saves them a lot of money and time if they know for definite that there's a hacker present."

"So I guess opening all the doors was a dead giveaway, right?"

Snake nods at him. His face is grim – but then he turns towards the hulking shape of Metal Gear, and his shoulders lower a little. Otacon purses his lips, trying to guess what Snake is thinking.

"You're right," he says, when he figures it out – Snake jerks his head around with a 'huh?'. "We can't afford to not take the risk."

Snake's silent for a second.

"If security does come, I won't stay to fight and make a bet on your life," he says, voice gravelly with resentment. "I promise you – I'll get you out alive."

"Thanks," Otacon smiles, heading towards the staircase leading to the walkway, "but I don't need you to promise me that."

"Why not?"

"Because... I know what you're like," Otacon replies. "I know how you'll respond to things."

"Don't reach conclusions too soon," Snake reminds him, following. "After all, it's only been four weeks and two days."

"I hope it lasts long enough for me to reach a better conclusion, then."

"If I have anything to do with it, it will."

They're instinctively walking in step as they board the walkway, and carry on like this. Otacon thinks, from the sound, that anyone coming in will only hear one person that way, and praises himself for getting better at this.

Something white flashes in front of the terminal.

Otacon is unable to suppress a little exclamation-mark gasp, but Snake is, gesturing for Otacon to stop. He walks forward, footsteps hushed, gun drawn, until he's round the other side of the terminal, and with a sudden flick of his thumb, the flashlight blasts on and there's a desperate scream –

"_¡No dispare!_ Don't shoot!"

Snake doesn't lower his gun.

"Get out here," he says, gesturing with a cock of his head so he can keep both hands on the pistol. "Come on."

Otacon keeps his eyes on the circle of light and sees two male hands appear, grabbing the edge of the terminal's cabinet. There's a terrified sob.

"I'm not going to wait forever."

There's a pause, and then a man stands up from where he was hidden between the cabinet and the wall. His face, blanched by the powerful light of the torch beam, is streaked with tears.

"Is it – you?" Otacon says, stomach churning. "Why are you here?"

The scientist sees him, and smiles. It's not a happy smile.

"I should be asking you the same thing, 'Good Cop'."

All thoughts in Otacon's head that he'd been somehow mistaken evaporate like smoke as he walks in closer. His footsteps clang self-consciously on the walkway and Snake, still busy maintaining his hold-up, only quickly glances up at him. It's the scientist from Serena, the one who gave Snake his card.

"Are you a spy?" Snake snarls at him, jerking Otacon out of his confusion.

"I'd never – "

"Then tell me. What are you doing here?"

The scientist gulps. His eyes stare out from between short eyelashes, a deep brown that's surprisingly rich in colour even in the bath of Snake's flashlight.

"I wasn't just any victim," he explains. There's a nasty bruise on his forehead, Otacon sees, purpling with age and disappearing below his hairline. Snake puts the safety back on his gun.

"You were the head developer, weren't you."

"Yes," the scientist admits, nodding. "It – hasn't been a good two weeks for me."

Otacon avoids his gaze.

"I was creating Metal Gear," the head developer begins. "It was nothing to do with the war at that time. Both Serena and Eldera were working for an 'outsourcing scheme'."

Snake frowns. "An 'outsourcing scheme'?"

"About a year ago, America gave many nations resources for Metal Gear development," the head developer explains. He seems to be calm now, listening to his own words as if to distance himself from their meaning. "Serena and Eldera were just two that they chose. They were hoping to come up with many different designs, choose a favourite, and use it as a basis for a new model."

"A year ago," Otacon repeated. "Was this just after the Rex incident? Because, if it was, then that explains why they couldn't do this kind of thing in America – "

"More than that," the developer said. "It's only a rumour, but I hear it was – Sears' men."

"Sears was forced to resign by the Genome scandal," Snake says, sceptically. "You mean to say, even after everything, he was commissioning Metal Gear designs?"

"It's a rumour," the developer repeats. "But, nonetheless, the rivalry between the two nations escalated. You see, the first to complete a working Metal Gear would be the first to get money in the sale. And that money could purchase weapons, mercenaries, repair damaged strongholds. Metal Gear, although indirectly, was the key to winning the war."

"You said 'indirectly'," Otacon comments. "You mean to say that the General wasn't going to launch a nuclear weapon?"

"No. It was a live test, using conventional ballistics packed into a case shaped like Metal Gear's warheads. He was, however, testing it on Eldera's capital. And whether or not it was a nuclear weapon, it is not just soldiers who live here." The developer suddenly turns to focus on Snake. "And it was you."

"Me?"

The developer grabs Snake's left forearm, and Snake tosses him away, clicking the safety back on his gun and tightening his grip, but the developer's eyes melt with desperation. "You! Your words. What you said to me. About doing the right thing – not for honour, or because it is expected of you, but for life, and for the force that is the need for life. It was your words that opened my eyes," he continues. "They opened up all of my hatred. I realised – whether it would be used by America or by Serena, it was still a weapon! Whether the payload was plutonium or TNT, I had still created a weapon! And in grief, I – stumbled from the fortress, and prayed for your success – and for the success of all good men like you."

Snake shuffles a little, looking uncomfortable. "Hey – "

"When Metal Gear was destroyed, I was ready to start a new life," the developer continues. "But the General's loyalists caught me. They knew I was the traitor – my card was registered on the security system as the one that gained access. I used to believe I was loyal to the General myself – " he stops, and touches his right leg – "but I was not as 'loyal' as they were."

Very slowly, without moving the spot of light emitted by the flashlight, Snake bends down, squatting, and touches the developer's leg with two fingers. He strokes up and down, and then strikes it with his knuckles. Otacon hears a solid noise. A cast.

"I feared – for my life," the developer continues. He runs a hand though his mane of curly hair, and falls silent until Snake gestures with the gun and says, 'go on'. "I thought about what you said – drugged and imprisoned, there was nothing else to think about. And I realised – " his eyes well with tears of anger, and Otacon swallows the lump that appears in his own throat in imitation – "and what good would it be, I thought, what _good_ my family knowing how brave I am if _I am not even alive_?"

Snake gently touches the developer's plastered knee.

"Survival is something that exists outside of morals. It's an instinct, and not always a good one. I've done some terrible things in its name myself. Feel ashamed later."

"I fled, and there was nowhere safe for me to go besides the enemy. So, I defected to Eldera."

"And as the head of the project, they were falling over themselves to have you work on their Metal Gear," Otacon finishes.

"It was a long, hard process to get them to accept my story. I was made to vow my allegiance. They beat me here, too. But I was too precious to them to need to fear for my life here. They sent me to work on this new 'Walker', and this time, it was worse."

"Because you knew, because of Snake," Otacon says, quietly. "He took your innocence." His eyes alight on a dark stain on the crotch of the developer's trousers – must have been from when Snake first found him hiding. "He's good at that."

"I longed for my family and my home, too, but the worst feeling was – the hate – " the developer wipes tears from his grimacing mouth – "the hate of what I had done. This thing – that I worked on, corrected flaws in – the one in Serena that I left behind – how I built the same thing all over again to kill tens of thousands of people just to save my _own – worthless – fucking – life – !_"

He lets out a gagging wail, and Otacon reaches forward to tell him to calm down but Snake just stares him down intently, and the anger resolves into hopeless, pained crying.

They listen to him cry for a few minutes. Snake's showing little sympathy, but concern. Otacon takes off his glasses and wipes his own eyes as soon as he's sure Snake's not looking – there's something about watching other people cry, he thinks. Eventually, the sobbing subsides, and Snake says stiffly,

"You can talk now."

"I – I hated myself," the developer eventually says, voice filled with the husky stillness of someone who has just sobbed all of their emotions out of themselves, the kind of voice that Otacon thought Snake had all the time. "I thought about killing myself, but – that was escape. I kept thinking about your words, and the way you – you looked at me. And then I decided I had to do something. But the hate was so strong, I knew I could accomplish nothing, because I was so – worthless. I knew I was not a good person, and could never successfully accomplish anything I wanted, let alone destroy something like Metal Gear."

"You're wrong," Snake says. "Anyone can accomplish anything they want that badly. Letting your own hate hold you back from change is one of the stupidest things anyone can do."

"Snake – " Otacon says, "he knows."

"But I thought of a way around," the developer continues. "I have access to the administrative records of the government as part of my job. And there, I found the identity of a spy who came to this nation years ago, during the Cold War."

"Matt Campbell," Snake whispers.

"He was dead, but his brother was still alive. And so I found his contact details and used that to send a distress call. I told him it was ready to launch – a necessary lie. I had no idea that he would send you!"

"Wait!" Otacon begs. "Why would they keep top-secret, Cold War-era information on a current issue hardware testing netw – "

But Snake has lowered the flashlight, and it's bathing his feet in the white glow as he says over his shoulder to Otacon;

"He must have told Meryl. I bet she wanted to go herself – I knew her for a long time. I know how she responds to things." He sighs. "But she told me instead. Guess it was to say she's done hating me."

"Time for us to end this," the developer says.

"You're right," Snake agrees, "this has gone on for long enough. Doctor!"

"Yes?"

"How do we go about stopping this thing?"

The developer swallowed nervously.

"I'll log onto the system using my pass," he says, pushing towards the screen, moving awkwardly on his casted leg. "But it will log my access on the system, and I will have to run again."

Otacon, letting his question fall to the back of his mind, moves over to the terminal himself. It seems fairly standard – keyboard, monitor, big custom tower connected to a bank of slave superprocessors for running sims on. There's a lot of ports, most running into cable extenders that drop into the hangar through the holes in the walkway like alien vines. There's an empty one that can take the cable he's got hanging from his netbook.

"Listen," he says, "if you let me break in instead, I can have it stop logging access."

"It's no use to me being free in this country." The developer shakes his head. He spreads his fingers on the keys.

Otacon notices the security on the terminal – it's biometric, he sees, as the developer moves his eye to a red bead on the tower. That would have taken a long time to bypass. Eventually, the account is accessed, and Otacon connects up his external HD.

"I'll copy the data securely," he explains, "as evidence. If it's encrypted, that will allow me to prove that the data is genuine."

The developer looks back at him, smiling – relief – and goes off to speak to Snake as Otacon makes a copy of the whole system. As the OS data writes onto the HD, he overhears –

"There – that is my family. I keep their picture with me, as my only piece of home here."

"I see."

"That's my wife's phone number. If something happens to me – "

"Yeah, I get ya."

Test data begins to copy. The file names rolling across the screen have the same file extension as the AT simulation program he'd been using in Shadow Moses. It's oddly nostalgic, and he feels strangely sentimental for a second.

"Do you have – a family?"

"No."

"Who would you call if you were dying?"

"I wouldn't. I'd die alone."

"If you needed help?"

"That's what _he's_ for."

"Your hacker?"

"My partner."

"Are there any reasons you picked him in particular? Besides convenience, I mean?"

The bar rolls closer and closer to the right hand side of the screen. Snake gives a flustered grunt.

"Go on," the developer pressures. "Tell me. Why him?"

"Well – "

The room is bathed in red light.

A siren – a red speaker on the far wall – screams, but the head developer screams first.

"It's security!"

"How do they _know?!_" Snake screams back. His boots clang over the walkway as he dashes over to Otacon. "How's the files?"

"Just twenty seconds – "

"They're coming!" the Head Developer wails, and Otacon whips around at the sound of the developer's hands grabbing Snake's sides. "Get me out of here! They'll kill all of us!"

"We can't go!" Snake smacks him away. "The files aren't – "

"They're copied! Now they're encrypting!" Otacon interjects.

"Do that later!" the head developer begs, waving an arm. "We need to get out of here!"

"I can't use them as evidence unless I do it now!" Otacon snaps. His hand goes to the USB port, ready to wrench the cable as soon –

– something hums through the wall, a resonating, wailing sound, like a B-movie UFO –

"_Los Voladores!_ Get me out!"

"Just _wait_ – " Otacon begs – "please - !"

But Snake's noticed something on the screen of the netbook, and he points to it, making a little ring-shaped mark on the screen.

The files are almost done –

"The chopper!" Snake reads for Otacon as he hammers on the mouse to get through errors. "The connection's gone!"

"That means they've found the chopper – _how do we get out_ – "

Wails build in the air as Otacon whips the cable from the tower, tucks the caddy under his arm and thunders down the walkway, but Snake grabs the loose back of his shirt and pulls him to a gentle stop.

"Listen – "

"_¡Ay, dios!_"

"Snake?"

"Otacon, I know what I promised you. Looks like I'm going to have to break that promise." He pulls Otacon close to him, and rests his forehead against his, so that Otacon can do nothing but stare back up at Snake's face. With nothing but the bright red light coming from one side, half of his face is lost in shadow. "I need to protect the Developer. I'll take the netbook. Give it to me – "

There's a high door on one side of the hangar, which lifts open as Otacon hands the netbook over. Snake closes its lid, and quickly says,

"There's an abandoned airfield two miles north. We'll meet up there, steal a plane. Have you ever flown a plane?"

"N – "

"It won't be a problem."

Snake pushes him, and they start running. Otacon stumbles on the steps, regains his balance a fraction of a second before a wild inaccurate volley of fire digs deep holes into the cement wall to his right. He screams, and Snake snaps,

"You can do it!"

They run into the main hangar area, as Otacon yells, "Why are you so _sure_ – "

Snake shoves him into a stumble and he lands on his hands – looking up, he sees Metal Gear's foot. Bullets spark off its armour. He gets slowly back to his feet, just in time for Snake, pinned against its other leg, to whisper,

"I'll make a diversion. Noise isn't my strong point, but I'll do my best. They'll be after the netbook, and not the caddy. You get to that airfield!"

"Why – "

"The developer isn't like you," Snake answers, reading Otacon's mind. "There's a reason you're my partner. You're not a man like him. You're brave, responsible, brilliant. You're a man who deserves a name. I can trust you to live. I can't trust him."

"Snake – "

Snake grabs the developer, pulls him down, and fires a single handgun shot at the lamp of the head platform. Fire concentrates on him immediately, but Metal Gear's leg shields him well.

"Go, _now_! Get to the airfield!"

Otacon doesn't even notice he's running until he's through the emergency door and back in the darkness of the jungle, breath rattling in his ears.  
  
---


	3. Untitled

There's something on his nose, and it's crawling.

He's lying face down in some bushy plant that's covered the clearing, and it's cold and wet and thorny against his skin. It's not as comfortable as it looks in the movies; he can hardly breathe, and he can see nothing. He can't move – he has no idea how to without revealing his presence.

Even if he was on his feet with his eyes open, there would still be little to see – just the shapes of trees, and the oppressive darkness of the night, stifling and black. Occasionally, gunshots fire behind him – deep, echoing bangs that roll across the forest floor in percussive stutters. Otacon's just thankful that he's too far away to hear the screaming.

Whatever's crawling on his nose has now reached his eyelid. If he concentrates, he can feel each one of its little feet, in a ring.

Two miles, he thinks. Just two miles. Two miles, in the forest, in the dark, without being detected, with no map, no compass, nothing. He'd only gone in the direction he was heading because the ground sloped up that way slightly, and if he was going to build an airfield himself he'd put it on a hill.

A voice sounds above his head.

"Ese infeliz tampoco anda por aquí," it complains, to no-one. The redness pulsing behind his eyelids melts into furred ovals of green and black as the searchlight rolls off his body. The _whubwhubwhub_ of the platform engine fades away.

The spider's on his forehead now. If it's even a spider. Which it probably is.

It's eight minutes before he's able to lift his hand to wipe it away. It is a spider – a big one, too, not quite a tarantula, but with hairy feet. He can't tell what species, but as it drops off his fingers on a long thread and scurries away, he assumes it's a fairly benign kind – the kind that doesn't bite nerds. And give them powers. More's the pity.

Standing up, he ignores his useless eyes and focuses on what there is. Otacon can hear the sounds of life lurking, chirping, sliding all around him; feel drops of water from the trees above; taste leaves and damp and sporey soil as the air rolls through his nose and mouth; but it's data, not information. Snake would know, Otacon thinks, but there's no point begrudging him for that.

He takes a marching step forward, and suddenly he's skidding down a mud slope – he lands with a thud, rolling on the damp earth with a grunt. He comes to a rest squatted on his hands and knees, and pants to get his heart rate back to normal from the sudden shock. Very slowly, he pushes back up and rests on one knee, staring up at nothing, checking his left forearm and thigh for signs of damage with his right hand.

The jungle is all around him like it's swallowed him up.

The caddy, at least, is in okay condition – a little dented from the drop – so he gets up and feels his way back towards the slope, giggling with relief when he realises that it's _tiny_. It's a metre tall at the absolute most – he's a complete idiot. From the fear and frustration, he rolls up with laughter, body slumped against –

A sudden stutter of gunfire sounds close to him. It sounds a short volley. Then a long one. Then it stops, leaving nothing but a white-hot singing in Otacon's ears as he flees.

\--

 

As the first light filters through the trees, Otacon allows himself, for the first time here, to cry. It's hardly controlled; great stabbing sobs that clench his throat as tight as if it was being held in a fist, and it takes seven minutes longer before he blows his nose on Snake's vest, surprised by how grimy his wetted fingers come away.

Head full of the silence of a finished cry, he considers. He coldly notes the plants he'd been semi-sleeping on when it had become clear to him he'd make no progress until dawn, rolling over at every passing noise. He wonders if Snake's already at the airfield, waiting for him, and if keeping him waiting would get him captured. It doesn't bother him on an emotional level any more; the tears ate up all of his fear and anger and hate, and without them, he is calm. And hungry.

He's not stupid enough to go around eating plants and mushrooms he doesn't recognise, and he isn't strong or fast or observent enough to catch an animal – not to mention, what would he kill it with? – and so he sets off, keeping an eye out for something that looks safe. He eventually finds it in the form of a nest, relatively low down a tree which didn't look too hard to climb, and he moves aside fronds of glued animal hair to find a clutch of six or seven tiny, white, perfect eggs, like gems. He's got no way of cooking them, and so as he goes he warms them in his hands before cracking them on the sharp edge of the caddy and tipping the slimy contents down his throat. The mucilage sticks in his throat and he gags a little, dribbling thick egg white, but they don't have any taste he can really object to and he swallows them down.

He realises an hour later that he left a trail – bits of dropped eggshell – but rationalises that he's leaving so many more things that it's ridiculous to worry about that. Anyone trying to find him would see crushed leaves, footprints, traces subtler than he could think of right now, an arrow pointing straight to his location, and all he can do is carry on and hope he is invisible. Just like Shadow Moses.

Both of them – he stumbles over a root with a yelp – both he and Snake had places to hide, cover to construct. They both knew so well how it felt to watch with invisible eyes. Both of them had been on a stealth mission –

STEALTH. Society for The Eradication of Armaments and Lethal THre –

A sudden noise grabs his attention away from his train of thought, and he ducks behind – _find cover!_ – a scrubby plant with narrow leaves. He's definitely visible. There's no way this is a good hiding spot. If someone looks this way even for a second, he'll –

"Security chief?"

_It's one of them!_ Otacon screams internally. _Speaking in English,_ the calm part of his mind realises.

"Yes, it's me."

Otacon wants badly to turn around and look, but he doesn't even dare to breath. His lungs starve for breath.

"Yes – " the soldier says, and Otacon quickly inhales as he speaks – he can't see if the soldier noticed anything. "You were right. They came here, both of them."

A tinny radio voice.

"My current position is roughly a mile south of the old airfield. Here is where nature itself begins to warp, shrivel and mutate into something diseased and hostile. It is a ring of death, Sir. It is as if the very hate stored in that weapon has poisoned the forest."

Silence.

"Surely it is good to be sentimental when you are with a friend?"

Otacon senses his glasses sliding down his nose. He's looking down, they're going to –

The soldier laughs. "Sir. I have good news."

_Clack!_

Otacon reflexively attempts to catch his glasses, but the heel of his hand instead slams down on them and the cheap round lens shatters under his weight. The crack sounds – and there's a silence.

Then the soldier continues,

"It seems we have located the position of one of the terrorists."

_No!_

"Sorry, but it seems the _Soldado del Diablo_ – they call him The Legendary Mercenary in America, right? – Yes, is still evading us. We have not found significant casualties, so we still have the time and manpower to nail the bastard."

Otacon knows what comes next –

"We have the other one. The scientist."

His stomach suddenly contracts. He begs himself – _Run! Fight him!_ – but he can't _move_ because if he does move and he is still hidden he'll be seen, but he can't possibly be still hidden, and then the enemy soldier suddenly says –

"Yes, we know he's the one who sold us out to the Mercenary."

_What?_

"His login was on the passcode system. And many of our men say they saw him alongside the Mercenary as they fled the hangar, limping on that broken leg. We're holding him."

_Oh,_ thinks Otacon, in relief, and then relief curdles into guilt and shame over feeling relief. Who knows what they were doing to him right –

"No, sir. No, I – don't know what state he is in right now. Give me a second to cut radio contact and establish contact with my friends at the cells."

There's a long hesitation. Otacon, slightly giddy, lets himself tilt his head to glance over at the source of the voice and sees a blurry soldier standing side on, radio to his ear. He's speaking into it, puzzled. "_Hola? Hola? ...Alo? No irás a dormir de nuevo, ¿verdad?_"

Then he fiddles with the dial and returns it to his ear. "The link is working fine, but there is no response. Presumably they are busy with something else, or asleep like last time. I shall try again later. But listen! I am out here because there were reports of signs of life in this area. As we know, few animals are fertile within a mile of the airfield, and yet a patrolman spotted broken eggshells, leading this way."

Silence.

"Yes, it could have been – a fox, maybe. But it is worth examining –"

Silence.

"No. _El Soldado del Diablo_ would not be so stupid, that is correct. Just – sir – "

Silence.

"Yes, I know that, but please listen! I am asking you to reconsider your plan. These platforms you have us tie into your little 'nostalgia campaign' very nicely, although for the benefit of whose nostalgia I do not know, but they lack the power of today's weapons. And surely there are simpler ways of capturing – "

Silence.

"What do you mean 'not an organisation'?"

Silence.

"Well, you should have waited and captured those lunatics above ground during their Christening party. Then you could put the _So_ – the Mercenary into that sim you were making."

Silence.

"Alright. We will continue our search and keep the developer in captivity until then. He should stay out of our way then, huh?"

There's a spider on the back of his neck.

It's even more irritating than the one earlier, and he just can't –

He brushes it aside. Accidentally, he jabs it, feels his nail cut into its body, and its fangs clamp down on the back of his neck and between the pain and the fear he suddenly gasps –

"_Ah!_"

Silence.

"Excuse me," the soldier eventually says. "It appears that someone was listening into our conversation."

_Run!_

"You said that he would be wearing a blue Sneaking Suit – I can see it from here. He isn't moving. I will contact you when he is dealt with."

The soldier slams the radio back into its pouch, and Otacon tries again to move but can't. He wonders why he can't move – begs himself to move – and prays against all logic that it was a mistake he _can't_ have been seen _he can't_ –

A boot falls in front of his vision and he reflexively looks up to the looming soldier above him. His balaclava hides everything besides his brown eyes, and Otacon makes a desperate sound of fear.

"Are you really the Legend?" the soldier says, pointing his assault rifle. "Look at you. I was told you were a real life American action hero, but your body is – "

The soldier pokes him in the ribs with the rifle's nose, and suddenly everything goes black at the edges of Otacon's vision as he shoots up and strikes the guard on the jaw with the caddy. He crumples to the floor and Otacon, screaming, brings the caddy down again and again and again until the adrenaline fog leaves his system and he's stood over the soldier, caddy aloft, panting.

There's a long string of blood running from the soldier's mouth to the caddy.

_He's – _

The guard's arm twitches, and suddenly Otacon's mind is a war – one side praises the heavens that the soldier isn't dead and the other side is screaming that if he isn't dead, that means he's going to _wake up –_

There's no time for anything besides running, Otacon thinks, and runs.

 

\--

 

It's forty-two minutes before he stops running, breaking into a walk only when his body could no longer bear it, as if possessed by a demon. The backs of his legs feel tightened like strings, and each step is a spike of agony that shoots through his pelvis. His head throbs with each beat of his hammering heart.

_I need to take up swimming again,_ he thinks, sinking to his knees. They fall against grey earth, untouched by so much as a seedling. _Wonder if Snake would go with me?_

His fingertips push up against breeze blocks, and he rests his head against their roughness, panting.

_It's the airfield. I've reached – _

 

\--

 

His aching feet aren't possessed any more as he walks along the barren concrete. Shoots are pushing up through the asphalt and cement, leaving bulges and hairline cracks, but their leaves are curled and malformed. One he finds with each leaf attached to a withered Siamese twin, malnourished and yellow and hanging limp off its brother. A large bird – some kind of raven, Otacon sees – pecks at an insect on a painted line that used to denote a walkway, and the ends of its beak are crisscrossed, evil little hooks that make it unable to pick up its meal. It glares at Otacon with its beady eye, and Otacon wonders if he's just making up in his head that he's heard ravens only live in the Northern Hemisphere, as it flaps away on its black wings. He follows it with its eyes, up to where the stark edges of the building meet the sky, white on blue, and he can't help but remember Shadow Moses.

No sign of Snake, though.

He wonders around the building's perimeter, searching for a way in, thinking that if this place really is Shadow Moses, it stands to reason that Snake would be –

"Aló. ¿Quién habla?"

Otacon stops walking. He turns towards the source of the voice – it had to be!

"¿Podrías pasarle el teléfono a tu mamá?"

It's coming from a large, squat arm of a building coming off from the main trunk of the hangar and storage. Its steel double doors are rusted, but as Otacon approaches he can see someone broke the lock off – judging by the clean line of silver through the dark red, they did it recently, too. He opens the door and steps inside. It's the control building, and it's a long, echoing hallway, ceiling made up of broken skylights – sunlight streams down in bright shafts, and the air beneath glitters with motes.

There's a body clad in grey-blue at the far end of the hallway. It's impossible to see more.

"Habla un amigo de su marido. No puedo darle mi nombre."

As Otacon approaches, step by painful step, he begins to make out the outline of a man's figure – broad-shouldered, with a tightly flat stomach, and long, thick legs disappearing into tall boots. He's walking casually, holding something red in his hand, next to his ear. Otacon takes his glasses from his pocket and fumbles them onto his face.

"Seré breve. Su marido está vivo. Él la echa de menos."

He's turned his back now. Otacon can see those legs joining to round, tight buttocks, suit clinging to them mercilessly. The small of his back is spanned with criss-cross lacing, dark straps leading up his long back over his full shoulders.

"Con la guerra como está, no puede, por el momento. Pero me pidió que le dijera... que él va a caminar a su lado de nuevo, algún día, cuando todo el odio haya pasado. Se mantendrá vivo hasta el día en que pueda hacerlo."

He tilts his head to the side, betraying a noble profile – strong, handsome, chillingly charismatic. Otacon watches as Snake opens his darkly stubbled mouth and says into the emergency phone,

"Es un sobreviviente, sin importar como. Considérelo una promesa."

Snake knocks the phone back onto the cradle, turns around, and smiles.

 

"Otacon," he says, "I knew you'd make it."

"Kind of a hard journey," Otacon admits. "I – sorry to keep you waiting."

"You didn't," Snake grunts, "it took me long enough. I'd only just got here myself, and I had a job to do first anyway." He nods at the phone, lips pursed. "Strange that I was expecting to be the one keeping you waiting, huh?"

_Not that strange,_ Otacon thinks, although he doesn't quite know why and he has better things to say.

"Oh, Snake," he says, instead of any of those better things. "You told me before you left that you'd cut your hair and – "

Snake raises an eyebrow behind the bandanna. "Does it really bother you?"

"Well, no – "

"Good. Because I've realised now – there's some things more important than shaving every day."

Otacon thinks that he's always known that, and that it's not much of an epiphany, but Snake looks happy with it, so he moves on to the important questions.

"What happened to this airfield?" he asks.

Snake leans back against the wall, arms folded. Bathed in sun and a sea of sparkling dust motes, his suit gleams like a fresh-shed coat of scales, and his hair shines with reds and blonds and browns.

"It's a nuclear storage facility for the material used to build Eldera's nuke," he explains, gravely. "At the time, Eldera didn't want to be seen constructing facilities for storing radioactive material; so they decided to go undercover. They divided it up and hid it under the airfield – so they could load the material onto planes, you see. Then workers started succumbing to radiation poisoning and the base was abandoned. The Head Developer told me that one of Se – his employer's promises was that he'd send workers to get the material out and store it properly, in a secret location."

"We probably shouldn't hang around here, then," Otacon says. "I've already soaked up enough rads wearing stealth camo."

"At least you weren't wading around searching for items in that drainage ditch."

"Oh, you have no idea. One of my team-members lost her engagement ring in there, once. We all spent the afternoon looking for it – never found it," Otacon says, and then adds, "her fiancé brought her a new one when we convinced him it was probably eaten by one of the rats."

Snake rolls his eyes, but he's smiling.

"Well, if you're done, I've got some questions to ask you," he says.

"Back to our normal working relationship?"

"Yeah. Whose blood is that?"

Otacon follows the line of Snake's eyes to his own right hand, which is sticky and brown with dried, peeling blood. He looks it over – for a second he's confused before he remembers how it got there and –

"Uh – " he starts, " – it's not mine."

"Is he still alive?"

"Yes, but – " Otacon swallows a sob. "He – went unconscious, and I carried on hitting him anyway."

Snake sighs.

"I see," he says, voice even and nonjudgemental, and he reaches out and pats Otacon's back as they start walking towards the hangar. "If he's not dead, that's one thing; but you should never inflict more damage on someone else than you need to."

"I – I know – "

"Still, you did what it took to get you here," Snake continues. They stop in front of the hangar's double doors; the power's long since been cut and there's no obvious lock for Snake to break open, so he gestures with his right hand for Otacon to follow him. He does, and they carry on walking. Snake's gestures are smooth and powerful, and so confident Otacon can't help thinking who Snake is the next generation of.

"Snake?"

"What is it?"

"What's your real name?"

"I – " Snake jerks his head away reflexively, but overpowers his reaction to meet Otacon's eyes. "What brings that up?"

"Just what you told me, before I ran – 'you deserve to have a name'." Otacon adjusts his glasses. "You know what? I think you deserve one too."

Sunlight and motes dance around Snake's unmoving back as he considers, hard. Then, so quietly Otacon can barely hear it, he says;

"David."

"David?"

"That's my real name."

"Seriously?" Otacon laughs. "Snake! Don't make these things up!"

Snake whirls around, eyes daggers. "You should watch what you accuse people of! Why would I m –"

He cuts himself off and his face melts into a mellow smirk.

"_Oh._"

They laugh, for a while, at the coincidence, at themselves, at the fact that both Hal and Dave are still alive even when everyone else in the ship is gone, computer and pioneer, companion and Star Child, and their laughter disturbs the dust and silence of the place, with the first true life ever since it began to peddle death.

The technician's entrance to the hangar is powered by a remote generator – of course, Otacon thinks, if the main electricity goes on an operating airfield, the technicians are the ones who need to gain access anyway – and when Snake hands him the netbook back, instructing him, "open the pod bay doors, Hal," he makes an awful snort of laughter, sort of stabs through the door controls until he breaks it open, and is eventually kind of disappointed that he's able to hack the door open in less than a minute because he wanted to say his line.

From the employee walkway, rows of bombers are visible below – lined in front of the huge, open double doors which lead to the runway.

"Which one do you like?" Snake teases.

"They're all the same," Otacon responds, and then says, "I've got it!"

"Got what?"

They walk onto the employee lift and the cage snaps shut behind them.

"A name for the organisation!"

Pulleys twist above their heads as they descend.

"How about 'Jupiter'?" Otacon suggests, "it doesn't have to stand for anything because it just sounds so good. Or maybe 'Halman' – did you read the books or just watch the movies, because in the last one it turns out that – "

"No."

It's calm, and forceful.

Otacon was expecting Snake to say he liked them both, so when the elevator thuds to the ground and the cage doors pull apart, he's still too shocked to say anything.

"They're the best names you've come up with so far, I'll admit that," Snake relents, "but I'm going to name the organisation. Metal Gear might be your sin, but we'll fight against it in my name. Got it?"

Otacon awkwardly glances over at Snake. Has he always had such sultry eyes, and he'd just – never been able to look at them before?

Snake leads him into the body of the hangar, and strides swiftly over to a plane at the front, with an unimpeded takeoff. The brilliant outdoor sunlight turns him into a graceful silhouette as he checks them for signs of damage, and then indicates a safe one with a wave. Otacon goes to him, grateful to Snake for thinking about his aching legs.

"I joined this organisation because of hate," Snake says, gloved hand braced against the smooth painted surface of the plane. "I hated Metal Gear. I hated humankind for allowing Metal Gear to exist. Most of all, I hated myself. For never allowing myself to have what I wanted that badly. For never allowing myself to have a happy ending. For going back to the battlefield after I'd promised myself I'd never return. For alienating people close to me, and for being such a worthless human being – one who didn't deserve a name. But now I understand."

"What?"

"This organisation can't survive if it's an organisation of hate," Snake carries on. "We'll accomplish nothing unless we're an organisation of love. Love of peace – love of a world without Metal Gear; love of humankind and belief that they can learn to love a world without Metal Gear themselves."

"Love – of each other?"

Snake nods. "Yeah. And that's the name that this organisation deserves. Love of humanity – 'Philanthropy'. That's what I'm calling this organisation. That's the name of the ethos it will live by. From now on, the two of us will love each other as Philanthropists."

"Philanthropy," Otacon echoes. For a second, Snake takes his shoulders, and Otacon stares helplessly into Snake's eyes. They are dark and beautiful and ever so animal, and suit him perfectly. Then Snake leans in.

Otacon doesn't move. He just concentrates all his senses on the roughness of the very ends of Snake's stubble against his cheek, and just as he thinks he feels the softness that's Snake's lips, Snake pulls away.

"Just as I thought," he says. "You did break your glasses. I'll buy you a new pair as long as I get to help you choose."

"We can write it off as Philanthropy's first expense," Otacon suggests. "They can't very well expect you to work with a half-blind hacker, can they?"

Snake lets go of Otacon, and slides open the plane's door.

 

It's twenty-four minutes before the plane takes off, towards the sun.  
  
---


End file.
